


Connect-the-Dots

by purewanderlust



Series: Love, Curiosity, Freckles, and Doubt [3]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M, Pre-Series, Pre-Slash, Weechesters
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-26
Updated: 2012-06-26
Packaged: 2017-11-08 14:17:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,237
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/444079
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/purewanderlust/pseuds/purewanderlust
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam's art project leads him to realize something about himself.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Connect-the-Dots

When Sam is eleven, he decides that he wants to be an artist when he grows up. Dad says it's not a practical notion and that he needs to face reality. But Dean keeps an eye out for inattentive cashiers and emerges from gas stations with color-by-numbers and sketch books smuggled under his jacket. When Dad finally notices, he doesn't bother telling Dean to stop. Probably, Sam guesses, because it keeps him quiet on the long drives.

One such overheated afternoon, Sam fills the last page of his sketch book while they ramble down some endless desert highway in the middle of nowhere. The air conditioning crapped out a hundred miles back and all three of the Impala's passengers are hot and cranky. All the windows are rolled down, but even the stiff desert breeze feels stifling. Both boys shed their shoes and socks, miles back, and Dean's even gone so far as to strip out of his t-shirt, but the heat is relentless. According to Dad, they have eight more hours to go before they're stopping for the night.

"When are we gonna stop next for gas?" Sam asks, tossing the sketchbook into the floorboards. Dad shoots him a dark look in the rearview mirror.

"When we run out, son, don't ask stupid questions."

"Just draw or something." Dean suggests in an undertone. "We'll stop soon enough."

"I'm all out of pages." Sam complains, feeling uncharitable in the heat. "And my library book is in the trunk."

Dean sighs. "What do you want me to do, Sammy? We're in the middle of nowhere."

"Can I practice drawing on you?" Sam blurts before he thinks better of it. Dean quirks an eyebrow at him.

"What?"

"My book is teaching me how to draw realistic things, y'know?" Sam says, squirming a little uncomfortably, "I could draw you a tattoo." Dean is still looking at him dubiously, so Sam backtracks. "It was a dumb idea, sorry..."

"No, it's a cool idea." Dean grins, "Let's do it."

Sam beams. "Really?"

"Course. Only as long as you don't draw something girly."

"You can pick." Sam suggests.

"I wanna dragon." Dean says immediately, "Can you do that, Sammy?" Sam nods. "Cool. How about on my shoulderblade?"

"Okay, c'mere." Sam digs his colored pens out from under the seat, pleased. Dean flops obligingly across his lap, sunlight catching on his hair and making it gleam like the spun gold in that Rumplestiltskin story he used to tell Sam. (Ooh, I woulda ganked that little bitch, Sammy, not made a deal with it!)

"I swear, Sammy, if you draw some butterflies or some shit, I'll kill you."

"Language, Dean." Dad pitches in from the front seat. Dean makes a face so only his little brother can see. Sam tries to bite back a smile rather unsuccessfully.

"What color do you want it?"

"Black and gold." Dean answers quickly. "With red eyes."

"You're such a dork," Sam says fondly.

"Takes one to know one."

Sam swats his shoulder in a good show of little brother annoyance. "Okay, shut up and stop moving, or I'm gonna mess up."

Dean quiets, then, and Sam sets to work. It's tricky, at first, adjusting to drawing on the raised plane of Dean's shoulder, rather than on a flat piece of paper. And his brother's muscles keep twitching lightly under his fingers, until he finally gets used to the touch of the pen on his skin.

Sam works steadily for a while, pausing only when the car hits patches of rough road. The sunlight slants in through the window, across Dean's back, but some of the intensity is gone out of the heat and it's almost pleasant, warming the back of Sam's hands as he works.

After another fifteen minutes or so, Dean's breathing slows and evens out, his head drooping against his brother's knee. Sam pauses, momentarily, wondering if he should keep drawing, but Dean doesn't seem like he's going to wake up. For someone who can go from the deepest sleep, to on his feet with a weapon in less than five seconds, Dean certainly does sleep like the dead when the opportunity affords itself.

"Hey Dean?" Sam stage-whispers, prodding his ribs lightly, "Are you asleep?"

His brother doesn't respond, so Sam figures he's safe to keep drawing. He's almost done, anyway. He puts the last few flourishes on the dragon's wings and sets his pen down, admiring his handiwork.

He had started with the intention of making flames and teeth; something super vicious in an action pose, but somewhere along the line, he lost that image and what came out is quite different.

The dragon is gold, as per Dean's request, but it doesn't have red eyes. Instead, it has Coke-bottle green eyes, and is staring down at another, smaller dragon in the shadow of its wings. The little black dragon is staring right back up, perfectly content in his place, the gold dragon's tail wrapped protectively around him.

It's some of the best drawing Sam's done to date, but, for a moment, he considers smudging it out and starting over. Dean is sure to look at it and mock him, or complain that it isn't badass enough. That Sam has to be the only person in the world who can make even dragons seem girly.

But before he can come to a decision, Dean turns his head towards him, muttering a sleepy "Sammy?" and grabbing at his t-shirt.

"Hmm?" Sam manages, suddenly incredibly distracted by the smattering of freckles over Dean's nose.

"D'you finish my dragon?"

"Uh-huh." Sam answers stupidly, still staring at his brother's freckles. They're exactly the same color as melted caramel and suddenly, inexplicably, Sam wants to lean forward and lick them, to see if they taste just as good.

He is so blindsided, stunned by his own thoughts, that he flinches back sharply, whacking his head, hard, on the edge of the window. "Ow, God!"

Dean is sitting up in a flash, reaching for him and Sam has to stop himself from flinching again. "You okay, Sammy?"

"Yeah," Sam said through gritted teeth, "Just bumped my head."

"Lemme see." Dean demands, carding his fingers through Sam's hair until he finds the growing lump. He's so close and warm and he smells so good that Sam can't help shivering under his touch. Dean stills for a minute, like he's sensed the alarming shift in Sam's perspective, but then he's pulling back, face relaxed and easy.

"Just a bump, you'll be alright." Sam nods weakly in agreement, mind still spinning, but Dean doesn't seem to notice. "Okay, show me my tattoo, bitch." he insists, flashing a bright grin. He hands Sam the handheld mirror Dad picked up a week ago, while he was hunting that basilisk.

"It's not exactly what you asked for..." Sam hedges, off-balance and ashamed. The drawing is suddenly the least of his worries.

"S'okay, Sammy, it's practice, right? Besides, it's not like you gave me a real tattoo."

Sam hesitates for another second before finally accepting the mirror Dean's shoving at him. He holds it up and Dean cranes his neck over his shoulder to see. There's a long moment of silence and Sam's braced himself to be mocked when Dean's lips curve into a soft smile.

"That's awesome, Sammy. Thanks."

Sam returns the grin, ignoring the weird, coiling heat in his stomach. He can blame it on the temperature.


End file.
